


'till we see the sunlight

by HolisticFangirl



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens
Genre: Angst, Boyfriends, Captain Phasma being a bitch, Falling In Love, Finn needing a hug, Fluff, Friendship, Growing Up, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Poe being a sweetheart, Rey being fantastic, Romance, Stormpilot, but like what else is new?, descriptions of child abuse and torture within the first order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 12:07:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17487758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolisticFangirl/pseuds/HolisticFangirl
Summary: FN-2187 wakes up one morning and he forgets.-The story of a scared little boy who ends up growing up, falling in love, finding his home, and redefining his idea of glory.(told in three parts)





	1. Before

FN-2187 wakes up one morning and he forgets.

Usually, he wakes up and he thinks of-- he thinks of _something,_ something that he just can’t place anymore. Something… something _warm,_ he thinks, and maybe _bright--_ like a memory. He sits up in his stiff cot and keeps his eyes closed and _tries,_ tries so hard that his head aches, to remember once more. Usually, he forces himself to remember this memory, to run it over and over again in his brain every morning until it’s become more worn than a sheet of creased paper.

This morning, though, it’s _gone._

FN-2187 swallows past the sudden, painful lump in his throat. There’s a memory that he’s been holding onto since they first brought him here, which was-- weeks ago? Months ago? A year? And for the first time, he can’t call up the thought from the dregs of his sleep-muddled mind.

For the first time since he’s been captured by the First Order, FN-2187 feels like a traitor.

 

It didn’t start like this-- with a scared little boy who feels guilt pressing down on his chest when he breathes because he’s forgotten his home, his family.

No, it starts with a scared little boy who feels nothing but terror and dread and _pain_ weighing down his every step. It starts with a scared little boy who is plucked from the dry, grassy meadows of his warm backyard to serve in an army that does not defend him. It starts with a scared little boy who used to cling to his Ma’s strong arms as she chopped wood outside, who used to sit on his Pa’s shoulders as his Pa baked warm bread that smelled just _heavenly._

It starts with a scared little boy who can’t remember his own name. Who can’t remember his own life, his own house, his own parents, his own little baby sister who was only two moons old when the First Order took him away.

It starts with a scared little boy who cries himself to sleep because he’s alone and afraid, and it starts with other little children-- little boys and little girls who start showing up in the cold metal rooms they’ve placed him in, one by one. Other little boys and little girls, with shadows beneath their eyes and with trembling knees, who are being forced to grow up too fast.

It starts when a group of lost kids huddle close together in cold cells and wait for their fate, wiping each other’s tears with grimy fingers and feeling too hungry to smile.

 

It continues after the weeks float by in those icy, windowless rooms. It continues when each and every one of the captured children finally stops weeping. It starts when they grit their teeth against the painful feeling of starvation that makes their very bones ache. It starts when they look to one another and realize, _I am not alone._

It continues when they become angry. When they realize that they are prisoners and have nothing left anymore. When they start to forget the voices of their loved ones, and when they know nobody save for the other children around them.

It continues as they hammer their tiny fists on the steel walls of their enclosure, not caring that their knuckles start to bleed. It continues when that lost little boy looks towards a lost little girl and it’s like looking into a mirror, because even though her skin is light and she is female, she has the same awful darkness shadowing her face.

It continues as the boy screams and screams for food, for water, for help, for home, until his throat is raw and burning. It continues when that feeling of fear settles so deep into his soul he doesn’t know what it was like to live without it.

 

It goes on when a woman comes to the thick iron door of their cell and praises them, in a clipped and detached voice, for passing their first test. The scared little boy doesn’t know how to feel-- furious? Pleased? Relieved? Even more sick with dread than before?

He is just a child. He doesn’t yet know how to filter through his emotions, how to make himself feel numb to the roiling sea inside his soul, so instead he lets himself be overwhelmed and feel everything so keenly, so sharply, it’s like he’s going up in flames.

The woman with the sharp-angled face gives them food and warm baths and the children forget, for a moment, just what she has done to them because she is their savior. They splash in bubbles and dunk their heads in warm suds. They eat until their bellies are swollen and then they vomit onto tiled floors, only to begin again. They laugh for no reason at all, and some of them burst into hysterical tears. They dress in clothes that are not raggedy. They are split into groups-- boys and girls, and each group lives in a dormitory stuffed with cots that have _pillows._

They are each assigned a name. The scared little boy becomes FN-2187, and he is told that he is to be a very brave soldier. That night, FN-2187 curls up on his cot and doesn’t suck his thumb into his mouth, for once. He listens to the breathing of the other little boys and realizes that maybe _this_ is what family is.

He thinks he’s not so scared anymore, but he isn’t quite sure.

 

The next years of his life pass like a flip-book, one of those old ones that nobody can be bothered to keep anymore. FN-2187 doesn’t dwell on the fact that he forgot his own family; he tries not to, anyway, because that is something his old self would do. His _new_ self is strong and meaningful and _important._ He is a part of the _First Order._

To him, that is starting to mean something.

FN-2187 talks to the other ‘troopers-in-training. He gains back weight and packs on a lean sort of muscle, unusual for children, that makes him look like a panther-- coiled and ready to spring an attack if cornered. He learns to keep everything clean as a whistle, sterile and shining white. He grows to love that blindingly harsh cleanliness because it’s yet another thing he can take pride in.

He and his soldiers grow closer together, a disjointed sort of family. The woman who had taken them in when they were mere children is called Captain Phasma, and she is their queen. They love her more than they love their own lives because she _saved_ them, once upon a time, and she teaches them at a young age that some things are more important than life itself. Some things-- like the cause that they fight for, a cause bigger than the galaxy itself-- are worth _dying_ for.

FN-2187 is drunk on visions of glory and splendor and heroism. He scrubs the floors and does exercises and drills and his mind is always busy. He cleans a _lot_ because it keeps his hands moving.

He’s not afraid of anything anymore, except for maybe the things he will think of if his hands stop moving. He fears having an idle moment to truly _think,_ to reflect. He fears what would happen if he doesn’t tire himself out so entirely that he’s out cold the moment his head hits his pillow every night.

FN-2187 is nine years old when they begin the Torture Training.

 

The Torture Training is like nothing he has ever felt before. It is agony that rips through his spine, that shoots flames through his veins and makes him bellow like an animal dying a slow, excruciating death. He endures mere minutes of it at first and passes out afterwards, drenched in freezing sweat. Day by day, though, he learns to sit through _hours_ of having his skin cut open and restitched, of having his bones smashed and healed.

Still, this training makes him _worth_ something. That’s why FN-2187 and the rest of them endure it all. Because they are _important, valuable, strong, soldiers._

He clings onto those words as he shuts his eyes and as a mallet slams into his knee, fracturing it to bits.

He spends five years completing the Torture Training-- all of its levels, clenching his jaw through everything they can possibly throw at him. Then, when he is fourteen, Captain Phasma starts trying to break their minds.

FN-2187 stays silent through that, too, even as magical beings root around in his head and try to stir up his darkest secrets. There are whispers around the base that Phasma is actually trying to root out any traitors in her army rather than train them to withstand anything that can possibly be thrown at them. FN-2187 doesn’t believe the whispers; he knows better.

_(Strongbraveimportantvaluable--)_

Besides, he has nothing to hide, anyway. He is loyal-- one-hundred-percent, unquestionably loyal.

 

He is eighteen years old when he completes all of his Stormtrooper training. _All. Of. It._ The elation he feels bubbles up in his stomach and he whoops, loud, and the rest of the ‘troopers that are celebrating along with him grin wildly from beneath their impeccable white helmets.

FN-2187 feels strong, brave, important, _glorious_ because he is a soldier in an army that _means something._ His cause is bigger than himself. He is changing the entire fucking _galaxy._ That _means something._

 _He_ means something.

Captain Phasma puts an end to their celebrating shortly afterwards-- for good reason, though, because they’re not _children_ anymore. She starts to assign roles, divvying them up into groups: one group is sent to a far-off starbase, another to a possible Rebel camp on a nearby planet…

FN-2187 waits, anticipation sizzling in his veins.

He is given the job of--

\-- _sanitation worker._

 

He feels cheated.

What happened to glory? What happened to honor? What happened to being unbreakable in the face of pain? What happened to fighting for a cause _bigger than himself?_

 _(Sanitation._ It feels like an insult.)

So FN-2187 scrubs floors with chemicals that make the skin on the back of his hands split open. He clenches his teeth and mops the tiles until they shine. He polishes mirrors until the thin, webbed cracks in them barely show. He’s reminded, sharply and suddenly, of when he was a child-- cleaning furiously until he dropped into a deep slumber.

It makes him think, a little bit, which is always dangerous. Less so these days than it had been years ago, but independent thinking can lead to terrible things-- grief. Loss. Betrayal. The more time he spends _thinking,_ the more time there is for him to concoct wicked schemes. FN-2187 knows well enough that he can’t trust his own mind.

He _does,_ however, let himself ponder his job. _Sanitation._ He thinks about being a child and being proud of the cleanliness of his new, perfect home. He thinks about how _cleaning_ used to be yet another badge of honor-- something small that he’d done to help the First Order.

He wonders if, maybe, this is another one of Captain Phasma’s tests-- to see if he can handle the odd jobs, to make sure he is completely loyal to their army and is strong enough not to throw a tantrum just because he has to do a little _cleaning._ It’s hard work, FN-2187 realizes, to be constantly hunched over and sweeping away specks of dirt.

It’s hard work, and yet he still manages to get it done. Impeccably.

And then he realizes that he’s still _happy._ He still eats his dinners with the rest of his friends in the mess hall, and he looks around and knows that they may be off fighting on other planets but he’s the one holding down the fort.

Sanitation is, apparently, not so bad.

 

But just because he’s beginning to enjoy his job doesn’t mean that FN-2187 isn’t _over the moon_ when he gets called to battle.

 _(Bravery. Importance. Glory._ Finally.)

And he can’t help his excitement, can’t help the trembling in his fingers as he holds his blaster in his full suit of Stormtrooper armor. He’s been able to shoot a blaster since he was eleven; he’s ready for this. He’s so damn _ready_ to finally make the mark on the universe that he was meant to make.

And then he realizes that his entire life has been a lie.

Because when FN-2187 faces a crowd of people who are a threat to the First Order, he realizes what they are-- they’re _people._ In the light of the setting sun, he sees _families--_ mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, _children,_ and they’re unarmed and they’re afraid and he can see the fear in their eyes and it reminds him of _himself._ It reminds him of a scared little boy in a scared group of children in a steel room and he once had a _family,_ remember that?

He levels his blaster and his heart is racing, his mind spinning so fast it’s shutting down.

These are _people._

Fuck, he can’t kill _people._ And he feels tears burning in his eyes, wetting his lashes beneath his helmet. He’s a fucking _coward,_ he _knows_ he is, because he can’t do what he was trained to do for over a _decade._ He’s twenty-two and he’s terrified all over again, and he’s a _failure._ Because FN-2187 knows, with a feeling of sinking dread in his stomach, that when the order to shoot is shouted amongst the First Order troops, he will not obey.

_(Bravery. Importance. Glory._

_Lieslieslieslieslies--)_

Families. Children. A sea of wide, dark, terrified eyes. Tension so thick it smothers him, choking him, oozing through his lungs like poison--

The command is bellowed. _Open fire._

FN-2187 is a traitor.


	2. During

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some lines of dialogue between the characters in this chapter were lifted directly from the movie.  
> also-- many, many movie spoilers. like. this chapter is basically a very short, glossed-over summary of the movie.  
> without further ado, enjoy reading :)

Death is not glorious. It is terrifying. It is painful and bloody and messy-- ‘troopers getting shot down left and right, most by enemies but some by accidental friendly fire. That’s a funny phrase, FN-2187 realizes--  _ friendly fire. _

There is nothing friendly about it.

He stumbles through the haze of battle and tries not to die, but he tastes copper in his mouth and his helmet reeks of blood.

He does not shoot. He cannot shoot.

_ Traitor, traitor, traitor. _

He sees a Stormtrooper fall and realizes that this is somebody he’s eaten  _ dinner  _ with. This is somebody he’s joked around with in the mess hall, maybe teasingly chucked a pillow at before bed. This is somebody he’s endured years and years of pain and training and pain and agony and training with. This is somebody he’s known from those very first days when he was captured, a scared little boy surrounded by scared little children and--

This is his brother or his sister and they are falling to the ground, blaster clattering unceremoniously to the sand. He rushes forward and he kneels, swallowing down the bile that burns up his throat. 

He wants to say,  _ It’s me. FN-2187.  _

He wants to say,  _ I’m sorry. _

He wants to say,  _ I’m a traitor.  _

He wants to say,  _ You don’t deserve this. _

He wants to say,  _ I love you. _

The fallen ‘trooper lifts their hand and touches it to FN-2187’s helmet. He pretends he can feel their fingers on his face, a parting touch from a family member. 

The hand slips away and leaves a crimson stain, one that he doesn’t think will ever be washed away.

There is no glory in death.

 

When the battle is quieting and the sand is settling, and FN-2187 can see nothing but fallen bodies, burned into the backs of his eyelids, he realizes the immensity of what he’s done.

He’s betrayed the First Order.

He’s going to  _ die. _

There’s so much adrenaline in his blood that another rush of it doesn’t seem to do much. He’s jittery and trembling and shaking and  _ he  _ knows that  _ they  _ know he’s a traitor. They’re going to kill him. It’s what they do to traitors. It’s what traitors  _ deserve _ , but holy shit, FN-2187 doesn’t want to  _ die _ .

He briefly considers running and then immediately hates himself even more than before. Only cowards run. He is not a coward.

(Yes he is. He didn’t shoot.

_ Traitor. _

Besides, even if he ran, it’s not like he has anywhere else to go.)

 

Maybe it’s because he knows he’s already a traitor. Maybe it’s because he knows there’s no possible way anything can get any  _ worse,  _ because he knows that there is no worse feeling than waiting for death with his head bowed low.

Maybe that’s why FN-2187 makes the decision to go out with a bang and not with a whimper. Maybe it’s because he’s kind of screwed up his life already, and when you’re at rock-bottom, there’s no place to go but up.

Maybe that’s why, after his blaster is taken for inspection (just a courtesy, FN-2187 knows, because the fault was not in his blaster and everyone who matters knows it), he runs into the Rebel pilot and decides to  _ help. _

 

The Rebel pilot is in the middle of a grand escape when FN-2187 finds him. And when they first see each other, FN-2187 kind of forgets how to breathe a little bit because he never realized another human being could look so  _ alive. _

The pilot is radiating life in a way FN-2187 has never seen before. His eyes, dark and wild and frenzied, are intense and alert and buzzing with energy. He’s full of  _ colors,  _ from the soft and textured hues of his layered hair to the blood on his face to the shadows of his sharp cheekbones, and it’s like he has some sort of magnetic aura surrounding him because FN-2187 feels drawn towards him, like he’s being  _ pulled  _ by some invisible hand to this person who crackles with invisible static and thrums with  _ lifelifelife.  _ Everything about him is imperfect and strange and completely non-uniform and he’s  _ beautiful. _

And because he’s already a traitor, and because he suddenly feels like he might die if he doesn’t stay as close as he can to this total stranger, FN-2187 offers his help.

The pilot accepts.

 

As it turns out, firing a weapon while zooming through space in nauseating loops while still drunk on the aura of a Rebel pilot is not nearly as easy as firing a blaster in a ‘trooper practice range.

Even so, FN-2187 thinks he succeeds quite nicely, given the circumstances.

He whoops, loud and maybe a bit hysterical, and he can hear the dashing Rebel pilot laughing right along with him. This is  _ crazy.  _ This is  _ insanity.  _ This feels like  _ living,  _ and FN-2187 doesn’t even know how to contain himself because it’s like his heart wants to burst in his chest. He’s never felt like this before-- so  _ alivealivealive  _ and maybe it’s this sensation, this sensation of alertness and awakeness and  _ living,  _ that will be the death of him.

There are worse ways to go.

The pilot’s name turns out to be  _ Poe Dameron,  _ and that’s-- that’s a  _ name.  _ Yes. Obviously. But it’s so… it’s so  _ personal  _ and  _ real  _ and it seems to encompass his personality, fitting into it perfectly imperfectly like a fragment of a million-piece puzzle.

Then the pilot--  _ Poe--  _ asks for FN-2187’s name and he answers, trying not to feel ashamed. His name is not a name. He realizes that, now.

Poe lets out a noise that sounds angry and Finn instinctively braces himself for the hate and the disgust and the venomous words that will be thrown his way. All Poe says, though, is “FN, huh?  _ Finn.  _ I’m going to call you Finn. That all right?”

And FN-2187 blinks because  _ Finn.  _ He realizes that Poe had been upset on his  _ behalf,  _ not  _ at  _ him, and--  _ Finn. _

Something warm and happy pools in his stomach and his eyes are wet, and he’s thinking to himself  _ don’t cry, not now,  _ but--  _ Finn. FinnFinnFinn. _

It’s real. It’s a  _ name.  _ It’s  _ his. _

Finn smiles so hard his face hurts. “I like that,” he says, and he can practically sense Poe’s grin.

 

They crash in some sort of burning-hot quicksand and when Finn manages to free himself from the wreckage of their ship, gasping for breath and utterly terrified, he finds himself waiting for Poe to tell him what they’re going to do next.

But Poe doesn’t come.

And the realization hits when Finn sees Poe’s battered jacket lying on the ground, abandoned, and he connects the dots. It’s like a punch to the gut followed by a kick in the face-- unnecessarily  _ cruel,  _ because Poe didn’t-- he didn’t  _ deserve-- _

Finn blinks back the burning tears that surface at the corners of his eyes. There’s a lump in his throat and his stomach twists, insides coiling into knots. He’s going to throw up. This is loss, painful and acute like a knife blade down his ribcage, and he  _ can’t.  _

Poe had been…

Poe had given him a second chance and a name and had shown him the truth of what it meant to be alive, and the terrible irony is that Poe is  _ dead.  _ It seems impossible; Poe had been the most  _ living  _ person Finn had ever seen.

And now…

Now Finn has nothing.

So he picks up Poe’s jacket, gingerly, and brushes the sand off of it. Hesitating for a moment, he swallows hard and slips it over his own shoulders. It’s still warm, laced with the scent of motor oil and an underlying sweetness.

Finn starts to walk.

 

The desert  _ burns.  _

The sun is scorching and his throat is parched, eyes stinging with each blink. He’s exhausted, bones tired and trembling, and he just needs  _ water.  _

Then, as if by some miracle, he hears the sound of splashing and his heartbeat picks up hopefully. Then Finn sees it-- some sort of gargantuan creature greedily and messily slurping from some sort of stone well.

He doesn’t think he’s ever run so fast in his entire life, but the next thing he knows, he’s greedily gulping down water that tastes--

\-- that tastes like absolute  _ shit. _

He fights down the urge to puke and instead scrubs furiously at his mouth with his hand. “Disgusting,” he mutters under his breath. Absolutely and utterly  _ disgusting.  _

Now that he’s had a few sips, though, his head feels moderately cleared of the heat-induced haze he’d been stumbling in. Finn gives the area around him a quick once-over; scattered around the desert sand is an assortment of cloth tents, and he can see dozens upon dozens of people milling around within their cool shade.

Finn wanders over, aimless, and sees a very pretty girl who looks like she’s being assaulted by a pair of thugs or something. He wants to step in and help, but she’s apparently wicked with her quarterstaff and obviously has it very under control.

He must have stared for too long, though, because the next thing he knows the very pretty girl is storming towards him with murder in her smoldering eyes. So he does the only thing he knows how to do-- he  _ runs. _

Finn ducks and bobs and weaves around tents and stalls, but the girl catches up to him much too easily. She’s lean and strong-- he can tell that much from the way she leaps nimbly across the sand-- in a way that makes Finn think she would have made a good Stormtrooper.

He banishes the thoughts. He is not one of them, not anymore. 

It only takes a few more seconds for Finn to trip, fall flat on his back, and have the girl looming over him furiously. For the first time, he notices she has a droid with her-- a round, orange-and-white droid that somehow manages to give off angry vibes without having eyes.

“You’re a  _ thief!”  _ the girl shouts accusingly, and, okay, out of all the things Finn expected to be called, this is not one of them. Deserter, maybe. Traitor, definitely. But  _ thief? _

The droid by her boots beeps loudly.

“He says you stole that jacket from his master,” the girl continues, eyes narrowing. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Before Finn can answer, the droid whips out some sort of laser and  _ zaps  _ him, right in the leg.

_ “Ouch!”  _ Finn yelps, offended. “What was that fo--”

There’s another zap that sends little needles of pain racing up his spine and he cries out again, tugging back his leg.

_ He says you stole that jacket from his master. _

“Poe Dameron,” Finn says aloud, and the droid doesn’t zap him again, thank the stars. “Your master is Poe Dameron, right?”

The droid hesitates before beeping once.

A wave crashes down in Finn’s stomach, making him nauseous. He doesn’t know how to say the words. He  _ can’t  _ say them-- they stick painfully in his throat when he tries. 

The droid understands, though, and beeps once-- a sound so lost and forlorn that Finn will forever be convinced that droids do, indeed, feel emotion. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice cracking, and the shame that oozes through his bones manifests like a physical ache.

He doesn’t deserve to be wearing Poe’s jacket. He is no hero.

 

The droid’s name turns out to be BB-8 and the beautiful girl is called Rey. They end up running for their lives because of the First Order-- which, at this point, is becoming nothing new to Finn-- and Rey keeps snapping at him for grabbing onto her hand.

“I’m  _ perfectly  _ capable of running by  _ myself,”  _ she says one time, and Finn wants to tell her that he  _ knows  _ she’s capable and strong and that  _ he’s  _ the scared one, not her. That would be  _ so embarassing,  _ though, because he had accidentally-kind-of-not-accidentally lied to Rey and told her he was part of the Resistance. 

Rey seems to pick up on the fact that he’s slightly terrified, though, and the next time he grabs her hand, she doesn’t protest. Her fingers are warm and calloused and Finn tries to convey all of his gratefulness into one look. She squeezes his palm reassuringly, and he feels just a little bit better.

They commandeer and old fighting ship that Finn feels slightly guilty about stealing, because stealing is  _ wrong,  _ right? Honestly, though, if someone just  _ left  _ a perfectly good ship out in the open it’s to be expected that said ship will be stolen. So he’s not the villain in this situation, which is nice.

Rey is apparently just as badass behind a ship’s controls as she is with a quarterstaff on land. Unsurprising. And Finn even managed to shoot one of the TIE fighters that had been on their tail, so he lets himself feel proud of himself and tries to drown out the hints of guilt that whisper  _ “traitor”  _ in his mind.

The ship starts making very strange and concerning noises, which is almost a relieving distraction from all the thoughts that are ripping him apart inside. Finn almost freaks out again, but Rey seems to know what she’s doing. For the most part.

She’s buried shoulders-deep in tangled wires in the floorboards of the cockpit when she asks Finn about the location of the Resistance base.

He panics.

He shouldn’t have lied, he  _ shouldn’t  _ have, and yet he  _ did,  _ and Rey had actually  _ trusted  _ him with something, and this is the  _ third  _ time in his life he’s been trusted with  _ anything  _ and he’s fucked all of them up-- betrayed the Stormtroopers, let Poe get killed, and now he’s a  _ liar  _ on top of all of that, and he’s nothing but a  _ coward  _ masquerading as a hero, and he’s a  _ phony,  _ and--

\-- and Rey is still waiting for an answer, and he needs to do something.

So Finn does the only rational thing he can think of: he turns to BB-8.

“I’m not with the Resistance,” he hisses at the droid, as quietly as humanly possible. “But--  _ please,  _ BB-8, you’ve got to help me. I’m on your side, I  _ swear  _ it, and I just-- I want to  _ help,  _ okay? So please,  _ please  _ tell her the location of the base,  _ please.  _ I’m begging you. Help me out. Please.”

And for a moment, he thinks the droid won’t do it.

But after a brief pause, BB-8 beeps something unintelligible that Finn takes as a confirmation.

“Oh, the location of our base?” he calls to Rey with as much false bravado as he can muster. “Go on, BB-8, you can tell her.”

BB-8 bleeps in response.

“The Ileenium System, really?” Rey asks, sounding surprised, and Finn is so relieved he almost passes out.

“Yep!” he announces. “Yeah, the Ileenium System. That’s where our base is. That’s… yeah, that’s where it is.”

_ Thank you,  _ he mouths at BB-8, offering the droid a thumbs-up. He could  _ cry  _ he’s so happy.

BB-8 lets a piece of his machinery jut out in something startlingly similar to Finn’s thumbs-up, and Finn ultimately forgives the droid for zapping him.

 

Finn’s relief doesn’t last long, which is-- yeah, no surprise there. They start getting sucked in by an actual fucking  _ tractor  _ beam, and Finn would be more mortified about his panic if Rey wasn’t just as horrified as him.

“We’re going to die,” Finn moans under his breath, “oh my stars, we’re going to  _ die.” _

This is it. The First Order’s caught up to them. He’s going to be executed for being a traitor, except now he’s dragging Rey and an actual Resistance droid down with him. It’s all Finn does-- bring people down, force them to crash and burn in the sand and then he steals their jackets and pretends to be brave.

He hates himself. So, so much.

But he doesn’t have time to hate himself right now because he’s starting to really like the thought of self-preservation, and staying alive is his first priority right now. And then he has an idea.

“Your repairs,” he blurts to Rey.

She looks at him, eyes wild. “Yeah?”

“You fixed the ship,” Finn continues, gears in his mind turning, “so… can you un-fix it?”

Rey swallows hard, every muscle tensed. He can practically hear her frenzied thinking. “That would-- that would flood the ship with poisonous gas,” she realizes, understanding. “But the Stormtroopers have helmets, so they wouldn’t--”

“Stormtrooper helmets filter out smoke, not toxins,” Finn replies, and then freezes immediately afterwards, wondering if Rey noticed his mistake.

She gives him a strange look but doesn’t comment, instead jumping straight to work on undoing her repairs. Finn exhales, thinks  _ that was too close,  _ and wonders if he deserves to die.

 

They hide in the ship’s maintenance duct, but it’s not a First Order member who boards-- it’s  _ Han Solo,  _ who’s this very infamous pilot, apparently, and who also owns the ship they just stole. He has a Wookie with him-- a Wookie named  _ Chewie,  _ and Finn tries not to be afraid, but he really can’t help it-- and it seems as if the two make a great team.

He wonders what it would be like, to have known someone for so long that you can just  _ work  _ with them-- seamlessly, effortlessly. He thinks back to the ‘troopers on the base, thinks about how they all used to play cards over dinner and gamble on chores.

He wonders if maybe they’re thinking of him-- wonders if Captain Phasma has revealed that he’s a traitor. He wonders what they will whisper around the base. Maybe the children, the ‘troopers-in-training, will grow up and think,  _ I’ll never become like that traitorous FN-2187.  _

Maybe his former friends are ashamed to have shared jokes with him.

Maybe they should be.

 

Somehow, running from fleshy, tentacle-y monsters isn’t the most terrifying thing Finn’s done all day.

Somehow, when Han tells him that Rey will eventually discover the truth of his past-- that he isn’t the big deal he claims to be-- well.

_ That’s _ terrifying.

(Finn doesn’t deserve her. He knows this. And yet when he tries to leave her behind, when she’s making big plans in the castle belonging to the large-eyed woman known as  _ Maz,  _ he finds that he simply  _ can’t.) _

 

Maz’s castle is attacked, and Finn is somehow holding a weapon in his hands for  _ safekeeping. _

(Ha. As if putting a weapon in his hands could ever be considered  _ safe.) _

He’s not safe.

He kills somebody.

A Stormtrooper, FN-2199, who is rushing at him and then the saber in Finn’s hands is glowing electric blue and then there are sparks and noise and  _ light  _ and--

\-- death.

He has just murdered his former friend.

_ (TRAITORMURDERERTRAITORMURDERERTRAITORMURDERER--) _

There are no words to describe the way his heart is fracturing to bits.

 

Finn goes numb. Everything is fast-paced and busy and  _ happening,  _ and the adrenaline in Finn’s blood has become a dull roar.

He wills himself to focus.

He thinks of the jacket he wears, lets himself be enveloped by the Poe’s invisible hug, and he  _ breathes.  _ The scent of motor oil and sugar lingers on his skin. Stars above, he  _ misses  _ this man who he’s barely even met.

He thinks of Poe’s thousand-watt smile and a little bit of warmth creeps back into his fingertips.

Finn keeps moving.

 

Poe is  _ alive. _

Finn sees him climbing from his fighter jet, smiling at BB-8 and crackling with energy and breathing and full of colors.  _ Alive.  _ Finn’s breath catches in his chest and for a moment he forgets that he’s a traitor, a murderer, a liar. Because this is  _ Poe,  _ this is the person who had given him a second chance and had smiled and had-- had--

_ Poe. _

And their eyes meet and there’s a static shock to Finn’s heart, and for a moment Poe looks just as stunned as Finn feels. And then the rest of the world melts away and it’s only Poe Dameron, jogging towards him and wearing a grin so huge it could rival any fucking sun or star in the entire fucking galaxy.

Poe stops short right in front of Finn--  _ arm’s length, touching distance--  _ and he sounds just a little bit breathless.

“Poe Dameron,” Finn exhales, because saying his name is making it  _ real,  _ “you’re alive?”

“Buddy,” Poe beams, face lighting up by at least a thousand percent. Finn doesn’t know how he does it. Poe’s dark eyes flick over him, as if checking for injury, before he says, “So are you.”

Finn wants to-- he wants to touch Poe, to run his hands through his hair and squeeze his shoulders and make sure he is  _ solid _ . But he doesn’t know what to do with his arms, or how to even begin something  _ remotely  _ close to a hug, so he’s going to settle for fidgeting awkwardly with his fingers when--

Poe hugs him, tight and deep and slow, face buried into Finn’s chest and arms wrapped securely around his middle. Poe’s hair smells like steam and Finn swallows hard and he blinks back tears and returns the embrace.

When they pull apart--  _ much too soon,  _ Finn’s mind whispers-- Finn checks to make sure his voice works and asks, “What happened to you?”

“I got thrown from the crash,” Poe explains grimly. “I woke up at night. No you. No ship. Nothing. BB-8 says that you saved him.”

“No, no,” Finn corrects hastily, because he feels guilty taking credit for this. “It wasn’t just me, it--”

“You completed my mission, Finn,” Poe says, a gratefulness so deep laced through every word that Finn can physically  _ feel  _ it. He takes a deep breath as if to continue speaking but then frowns, eyes flicking downwards. “That’s my jacket.”

Finn feels blood rush to his face, so fast he nearly gets dizzy. “Oh,” he stammers out, wondering how to word an apology without making it sound  _ incredibly  _ creepy. “I--”

“No, no, no,” Poe interrupts, and his voice is  _ different  _ now. Softer. And there’s a gentle, wistful sort of smile playing about his lips. “Keep it,” he continues, and Finn really,  _ really  _ wants to swoon. “It suits you,” Poe finishes, and then he bites down on his lower lip as if to keep from saying more.

Finn’s heart skips a beat.

(He needs to talk to Rey immediately. What does this  _ mean?  _ Why is he feeling  _ like this  _ about Poe?)

But all he does is say, “Poe, I need your help.”

And Poe Dameron-- the dashing Rebel pilot with fire in his hands and light in his eyes and playfulness in his soul-- nods determinedly. 


	3. After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aah, this is kinda messy and rushed and i'm not super proud of it, but i hope you all like it anyway!  
> thank you to everyone who commented, kudos'ed (is that a word? it is now), and subscribed. you guys are fantastic <3

Finn is in pain.

It’s pain like he’s never known before, not since the days of Torture Training. It’s fire that shoots up his spine when he moves, agony that makes his breath catch in his lungs and makes his throat grow tight. He doesn’t think. His mind is a mess of colors and thoughts and feelings and _pain._

Sometimes, he tries to open his eyes and he feels like he’s drowning in white light.

Usually, he just keeps his eyes closed and wills himself to fall back asleep, to let himself drift off in a sea of darkness and deal with everything _later, later, another day._

And every time his consciousness slips, he can almost imagine he feels the touch of calloused fingers against his own. He can almost imagine a voice, low and murmuring and concerned, and he can practically taste the sweet scent of motor oil and steam on his tongue.

Finn sleeps.

He does not dream.

 

“No, I-- General, I’m-- I’d like to respectfully decline. I’m going to stay here.”

“Mr. Dameron, when is the last time you’ve showered?”

“This morning, I swear!”

“Liar. And when’s the last time you’ve eaten?”

“... this morning, I swear?”

A sigh. “Mr. Damer-- _Poe._ I’m not speaking to you as a general right now, but as a friend. You need food. You need rest.”

“No, I _need_ Finn to be okay. I’m going to stay _here,_ please, General Organa.”

A moment of silence. “I’m sending up a droid with a meal for you. If I don’t get that tray back absolutely _empty,_ I’m having you forcibly removed from the infirmary. Is that clear, Mr. Dameron?”

“Yes, General.”

A clicking of boots on tiled floors.

“General?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

A few of the names click hazily in Finn’s brain. He feels foggy. His eyes won’t open.

He turns onto his side and continues to sleep.

 

Only when Finn can’t sleep any longer does he truly opens his eyes. He feels bleary and light-headed and heavy-limbed, and there’s a ceiling above him that shines with white lights. For a moment, he thinks he’s back in the hospital wing of the First Order base, and he wonders what he did to land himself here.

He tries to sit up, but the moment he lifts his head off the pillow beneath him there’s a searing pain in his back, so sharp and sudden that he heaves for breath.

“Whoa, whoa, Finn, buddy,” a voice is saying, sounding frantic and tense and yet full of relief.

Finn recognizes that voice. It’s _Poe._

A pair of firm hands rest on his shoulders and lower him back down onto the pillows. Finn cranes his neck to look to his right, where there’s a stiff-looking chair set up next to the cot that he’s laying in. And Poe is there, dark circles under his eyes and a weary smile on his face but his eyes are warm and full of gentleness.

“What happened?” Finn rasps. His throat is so dry the words are almost unintelligible.

“Water!” Poe calls out to someone, and it’s only then that Finn notices the two med-droids loitering nervously in the doorway. He’s in a small room, not particularly well-decorated or anything but it manages to be cozy all the same, and outside the doorway he can see a hallway that echoes with distant voices.

One of the med-droids hurriedly rolls out of the room, most likely to grab a glass of water.

“You’re a freaking _miracle,”_ Poe says, and Finn turns his attention back to him. “You-- you took a lightsaber stab to the back like an absolute _hero,_ let me tell you, and-- and you-- Finn, you’ve been asleep for a _week,_ I was so damn _terrified,_ I--”

He pauses, taking a deep breath. His eyes look misty. Finn can’t figure out why.

“Anyway,” Poe says with a shaky grin, and Finn’s heart squeezes in a way that’s entirely non-medical. “How… how’re you feeling?”

Finn almost wants to laugh. Suddenly, he can’t remember the last time somebody’s asked him that-- asked him and really wanted to _know._ “I’m not awful,” he croaks, and even though it sounds like he’s swallowed literal stones, Poe beams bright.

(So bright. It makes Finn feel weak at the knees. He needs to talk to _Rey,_ like, yesterday.)

“Where’s Rey?” Finn asks.

It might be just his imagination, but Poe’s smile dims just a tad. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, gone too quickly for Finn to place, but it looked almost like _disappointment._

Suddenly, Finn is terrified. Is there bad news? Is Rey even _alive?_

Poe must be able to read his panicked expression, because he’s quick to assure him that “Rey is fine, don’t worry. She’s not here, though. She went off to train with Luke Skywalker.”

Finn tries hard to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat. Rey is gone. Rey is _gone._ And as happy for her as he is, it hurts because she’s the only other friend he has, other than Poe, and right now, Poe is making him feel all sorts of confusing things that he _really_ wishes Rey was here to help him out with.

“Uh,” Poe says, clearing his throat, “I’m going to go take a shower. I have a feeling I desperately need one.”

Finn opens his mouth to protest, because he really, _really_ wants Poe to stay, but then immediately shuts it again because _Poe doesn’t want to sit around in a stuffy hospital room with you, idiot._

As Poe makes for the door, Finn calls his name.

Poe turns, a question in his eyes.

“Thank you,” Finn says, so softly it’s a wonder Poe can even hear him, and he hopes that he conveys the depth of his gratitude with those two words.

Poe’s smile softens, and his head tilts lightly to the side, and he nods. Just once.

It’s enough to chase the lingering stains of pain away, even if just for the moment.

 

It’s only after Poe leaves, and after the med-droids have provided Finn with water and a ration bar to eat, that Finn realizes he’s still wearing Poe’s jacket. It smells like him, and it’s so warm and soft around his bruised arms that he never wants to take it off.

Then he realizes that there’s a tear in the back, most probably where he’d gotten hit with the lightsaber, and he cringes.

He can’t even keep a friend’s _jacket_ without ruining it.

He’s such a failure.

But somebody walks into the room, interrupting his thoughts. It’s General Leia Organa, and her face looks stern as always but her eyes are kind.

“General,” Finn coughs. His throat is still sore and aching, despite the water.

“Finn,” Leia says quietly. She walks to the edge of his bed and takes a seat next to him, which Finn actually appreciates. He’s still leaning back on a pile of pillows, unable to sit up for himself, and he likes the fact that he can look the general in the eye as she speaks.

Suddenly, Finn is struck with the realization of how many _resources_ they must be wasting on him in here. The bed, the food, the drinks, the med-droids… and he’s taking up one of their hospital rooms, too, one they could probably be using for one of their own rather than an ex-Stormtrooper.

“I’m so sorry,” Finn blurts. “I-- I’m not even in that much pain, General, and if-- I don’t need that much food, either, I’m used to not having too much to eat, and if--”

“What are you talking about?” Leia interrupts, brow furrowing.

Finn’s face burns with shame. “The… the resources. You can’t use them all up on me, and I know I’m not important in the grand scheme of your cause, so if you need to kick me out, then that’s fi--”

“Enough,” Leia interrupts, voice quiet. Her eyes flash as she grabs Finn’s hand, squeezing his palm in her own. “We don’t do things like that here, Finn. This is not the First Order. You are valuable, not only as a warrior, but as a living being. We care about you-- you as an _individual._ And we will always have space for you here, for as long as you need.”

Finn’s eyes suddenly feel very hot. “Thank you,” he manages.

Leia smiles at him, something soft and motherly that makes his heart pang. She leaves his room without another word.

 

Finn spends the next couple of days doing not much other than lying in bed. Poe visits him daily and brings him stories about the other Resistance pilots that make him laugh. They talk for hours, usually, and Poe often eats his dinner in Finn’s hospital room rather than in the mess hall.

Finn can’t figure out why. All he knows is that, every time, it warms him from the inside out.

He tries to return Poe’s jacket, but Poe vehemently refuses. (“It still looks good on you,” he says with a grin. “I’ll get one of the droids to stitch it up and it’ll be good as new, but you should keep it.”

His words echo in Finn’s head, even after the jacket is fixed. Sometimes, Finn runs his hands down the stitches in the back of the fabric and wonders how he got so lucky.)

 

One day, Poe brings Finn a tablet with a camera on it.

“So you can talk to Rey,” Poe says softly, handing it to him. The metal is cool and smooth in Finn’s palms. Finn smiles so brightly his face hurts.

“Thanks,” he beams, and Poe nods as he takes a seat in the chair next to Finn’s bed.

Finn phones Rey and her face fills up the screen, bright and lightly freckled and glowing with happiness.

 _“FINN!”_ she shrieks, so loudly that Finn’s ears ring. _“I MISS YOU!”_

Finn’s heart swells until it’s past the point of breaking. “I love you, Rey,” is the first thing he says. The words spill from his lips before he can stop them, and he realizes that he _does._ He’d do anything for Rey, _anything._

Rey’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and Finn can see a blush highlighting her cheekbones. “I love you, too,” she answers immediately, and the words settle in Finn’s heart as warm as any hug.

Poe clears his throat awkwardly, and Finn turns to him.

“I’m-- I have-- dinner,” Poe stammers, and he stumbles from the hospital room before Finn can say another word.

“Who was that?” Rey asks, craning her neck as if she’s trying to see over the screen and into the room. She’s standing somewhere outdoors and windy, and strands of her hair are whipping crazily in all directions.

“That was Poe,” Finn replies, and just saying his name makes his insides do strange things.

Rey grins knowingly. “I met him, you know, while you were still asleep. We spent some time in your hospital room together, but I must admit, he seemed very, _very_ distraught over your injury.” She frowns. “Not that I _wasn’t_ distraught, but, well, you know.”

Finn tries not to let his interest show. “Oh?”

His voice cracks on the word, and Rey snickers. “He’s quite good-looking, isn’t he, Finn?”

Finn scowls, face heating up. He feels defensive all of a sudden, but it’s a laughable sort of defensive, if that make sense; he knows Rey’s just teasing, and it makes him feel at home again. “Why?” he shoots right back, raising an eyebrow. “Are you interested, Rey?”

She makes a face, poking her tongue out at him. “No, thank you. Not in the mood for a pretty boyfriend, if you know what I mean.”

_Pretty boyfriend._

“Oh my stars,” Finn realizes, jaw dropping. “Rey. Rey. I _like_ Poe. I want him to be my _boyfriend.”_

Rey rolls her eyes fondly. “Yes, yes, I’m shocked. So surprised. Though I must tell you, I think he likes you too.”

Finn tries to take a deep breath but manages to choke on his own oxygen. “But. But _Rey._ It’s _Poe._ He’s so-- so-- he can’t like _me,_ I’m just-- _me.”_

Rey facepalms. “I’m going to have to deal with your pining for a while, aren’t I?” she groans.

Finn is too overwhelmed with feelings to answer.

 

Now that Finn understands why his heart does flips when Poe’s around, it’s become a lot more… _distracting._ Poe is smart, Finn knows this, and it means that he has to be careful or Poe will figure out his secret.

In the meantime, the med-droids help him start walking again, since the pain in his back has dulled to a more manageable level, and Finn walks slow circles around his hospital room. Sometimes Poe will join him and walk with him, and they make rounds across the hospital wing hand-in-hand. (They hold hands for _support,_ Finn reminds himself, but that doesn’t stop his pulse from quickening at the feeling of Poe’s calloused fingers against his own.)

When it’s Finn’s last day in the infirmary, Rey calls him on the tablet. Despite the wind and the gray sky behind her, she looks fierce and alive.

“How’s Force training going?” he asks her.

She laughs, voice crackly. “It’s _fantastic!_ But I have good news.”

Finn raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Rey grins. “I’m coming to visit in two days.”

Finn lets out a yelp of pure joy. “You are? You’re coming _here?”_

This is probably one of the best things that’s ever happened to him, other than Poe, of course. Because Rey is coming to _visit,_ and he can introduce her to some of the particularly kind med-droids, and she will _love it here._

“And guess what?” Rey continues. “During my visit, you’re going to tell Poe that you’re in love with him.”

 _“Nooooo,”_ Finn interrupts immediately. “Nope, no, no way in hell, not happening.”

Rey gives him a _look._ “Why not?”

“Because it’s one-sided and it’s going to ruin our _entire friendship_ if I tell him, because then he’ll be disgusted with me and never want to speak to me again.”

Finn figures it’s a pretty valid reason.

“No, listen,” Rey sighs, “I talked to BB-8 the other day and he’s one-hundred-percent positive Poe likes you too.”

Finn narrows his eyes. “BB-8 is a _robot.”_

Rey scowls. “And you know just as well as I do that BB-8 has feelings, so. Your argument is invalid. You’re telling Poe how you feel so my next few months of video calls with you won’t be filled with you being sad.”

“I--” Finn begins, but Rey cuts him off.

“Bad connection,” she says apologetically, making a hissing static sound with her teeth. “Finn-- _pssshh--_ I can’t hear-- _psshh--”_

“Rey, I _know_ you’re the one making that sound,” Finn says with an eye-roll.

Rey grins, dimples appearing in her cheeks. _“LOVEYOUBYE,”_ she blurts, and hangs up.

Finn groans, tossing the tablet onto his blanket. “She’s ridiculous,” he grumbles to himself, but that’s when he sees the person standing in the doorway.

It’s Poe, dressed in normal clothes and wearing a shocked expression on his face.

_Oh shit._

“Poe,” Finn says, trying for a smile and failing miserably. “Hi, hello, how was your-- how much did you hear?”

Poe just shakes his head, crossing into the room and standing at the foot of Finn’s bed. Finn slides out from beneath the sheets and stands up with only minimal pain, wondering if he’s strong enough to make a run for it.

“Is it true?” Poe asks quietly. “What Rey said. That you’re… that you’re in love with me.”

Finn swallows, carefully avoiding Poe’s eyes. The tiles on the floor are quite dusty. He should probably clean them.

“Finn?” Poe prompts.

Finn sighs heavily, already missing the weight of the all-too-familiar jacket on his arms. When Poe takes it back, he doesn’t think he’ll ever feel warm again. “Yeah,” he admits, because he’s been caught. This is it. “It is.”

Poe takes a deep breath and Finn glances up at him, wondering if he’ll receive anger or just plain revulsion. He figures it’s a fifty-fifty chance of either.

“I thought you were in love with Rey,” Poe says, and instead of fury or disgust Finn hears _confusion._ He isn’t sure how to deal with that.

“Rey?” Finn asks, wrinkling his nose. “Ew. No. She’s like… like _family._ Like. Sibling-family, you know?”

Poe releases a huff of air, and then he bursts out laughing.

Finn takes a step back, alarmed. What is _happening?_

And then Poe is taking a step forward and he grabs Finn by the seam of his jacket and yanks him forward and then--

\-- _oh._

Poe seals their lips together, and everything falls into place. His mouth is soft beneath Finn’s, face tilted upwards and eyes shut, and Finn circles his hands around Poe’s waist and kisses him back.

It’s everything he could have ever dreamed of.

And then Poe pulls back, face flushed and slightly breathless. Finn’s heart is thundering so fast it’s impossible that Poe can’t hear it. Poe’s hand is still pressed against his chest and Finn’s thumbs are still grazing the sliver of skin visible between Poe’s shirt and his jeans, and he suddenly never wants this moment to end.

“Was that okay?” Poe asks gently, eyes full of worry. “Are you okay with that? Kissing, I mean. Do you think-- are you okay with kissing _me,_ or--”

“I love you,” Finn murmurs, and Poe’s eyes flutter shut once more. His lashes are long, casting gorgeous shadows against his cheekbones.

This time, it’s Finn who leans forward to touch their mouths together once more.

 _Rey was right,_ Finn thinks, and for maybe the first time in his entire life, he feels like he belongs.


End file.
